


Diamonds and Iron

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [19]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Enduring is not always the way, Expectations and Realities, F/M, differences between Dwarf-Clans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-03
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2019-01-08 17:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12258816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The day Fundin and Sigrún leave the Iron Hills to build a new life in Erebor, Sigrún's twin sister takes stock of her life and finds it wanting. Her husband, the only son of Lord Grór and Princess Katla, is almost as unsatisfied.A look at possible differences between the Dwarven clans.





	1. Rádveig

## Chapter 1

Rádveig was standing by her tower window, staring across the foothills. The rust-red stone reminded her of home, but this place was not home. The colour was wrong, her native mountains did not look like old dried blood; _her_ home was a swirl of reds, all the way from darkest hematite through umbra and ochre to the light waves of the red marble. _The Iron Hills_. Aptly named, there was little _but_ iron here. _Iron ore, iron bars, iron armour, iron heads_ , she thought, viciously. Turning to face the room that had been her residence for more years than she cared to remember, Rádveig dreamed of light silk garments, floating gossamer veils, and gold bangles tinkling against each other with each step, dreamed of lying in the palace gardens with her sister and enjoying the sun on her skin, listening to the soft music of sitars. Closing her eyes, she could smell the incense her Amad imported from Harad, the perfumes she used to wear, made from flowers that only grew in Harondor.

When she first came here, to this dreary place where dancing meant stomping around in iron boots, not coquettish flirting with veils and fans, Rádveig had been optimistic about her future. Being bartered away in marriage, she hadn’t minded. Waiting for years for her intended to come of age, she hadn’t minded either… well, she had been a little bored, but she’d had Sigrún, at least, even if her twin was settling in far easier than anyone had expected. Of course, that was all because of Fundin, Sigrún’s new husband and his family, who had welcomed her far more warmly than Lord Grór and Lady Katla had welcomed Rádveig. The fact that her sister had found her One at Rádveig’s engagement party… that one had stung a little, but she had been happy for her twin.

She had not expected to love her husband, though she had tried in the beginning. She supposed she was fond of him, Náin was by no means a bad dwarf, and made a tolerable husband, if one’s idea of a husband was a dwarf one saw more or less once a week for dinner and a trip to the bedroom. It had not been Rádveig’s idea of a husband. She had wanted… she had _dreamed_ she would have what Sigrún had found in Fundin; a partner, a lover, someone whose pebbles she actually _wanted_. Rádveig had believed her adad when he told her that love could grow slowly, could be built stone by stone until it became a strong foundation on which to build her new life. She had liked Náin tolerably well the few times she’d spoken to the young dwarf, but after the wedding he had utterly failed at building anything at all with her except resentment. Rádveig almost wished _she_ had been the one Fundin felt drawn to, even if she would never dream of begrudging her sister the happiness she had found with her doting husband. At least, Fundin cared. He and his family had even tried to extend their warmth to Rádveig, but she hated to feel like she was intruding on her sister’s new family, and so she had refused to join them most of the time.

Sometimes, in the dark of night, she dreamed about someone who _would_ treat her like Fundin did Sigrún… Instead, she had Náin, who was… kind. Radveig nearly laughed at herself at the thought. Náin the Kind. It even rhymed. He showed up once a week, like clockwork, followed by a bevy of maids carrying their supper. When the maids scurried off once more, they would eat in silence or speak of inconsequential things like the price of bloody _iron_. The meals were always excellent, at least Rádveig used to think so, before the reality of her life turned every bite to ash in her mouth. Lord Grór had bartered for an exotic bride for his son, and she supposed she remained exotic with her darker skin and her unbound beard, but Náin didn’t seem interested in any of the ‘exotic’ things they taught young dams at home, had never even asked her to dance for him, or play her harp, or sing, and Rádveig no longer cared to make the effort. Sometimes, she wanted to scream at Náin – just to see if she could affect him in some way, _any_ way at all. So far, she hadn’t dared, being raised better than a howling barbarian, but the day she would snap was looming ever closer. When they had finished eating – she always finished well before him, too anxious to eat, and he ate so slowly when they were alone, trying to prolong their idle chatter, as though he too dreaded the next event on schedule. _The bedroom_. Rádveig had two. She didn’t care to be reminded of Náin’s weekly visits when she tried to sleep. Not that he was hurtful in bed, rather the opposite; he was always slow enough and careful enough. She assumed he enjoyed it that way, though she couldn’t say for sure; he always snuffed out the candles before they got undressed and suppressed any sounds of enjoyment. Perfectly horrid, was what it was, lying in the darkness and trying not to imagine whose face her husband was truly dreaming of, whose body he pretended to be kissing. Sometimes, she wanted to push him away, but she always managed to pretend like the affectionate touches were meant for her, accepted the fragile illusion of care and surrendered to the needs of her body, pushing her mind far away from the act in an attempt to enjoy it.

Once, in the years when she was recently wed, back when she still thought they would come to care for each other, she had worn things her cousins had sent from home, had made an effort to be pleasing to the eye, daubing scent onto her skin, taking care with her hair and her beard. Now… she cared not. She had long ago decided not to compete with whoever her husband used to make bedding her palatable – surely that was the only reason he wouldn’t want to look at her, want to kiss her? – telling herself she had too much self-respect to try. It seemed obvious to her that her husband needed to believe he was bedding whoever was actually in his mind when he lay with her, and Rádveig didn’t even care enough to find out the name of his mistress. She was sure he had one, though no one had told her of any indiscretions – _they’d have to speak to her to do so, after all_ – for surely he wouldn’t be happy with their once-a-week tumbles. _She_ wasn’t, but luckily her cousins in the Orocarni were kind enough to send her the tools to take care of herself as often as she pleased. They also sent her alluring scents and risqué garments, of course, trying to help her entice her reluctant husband into her bed. Rádveig did not tell them that she simply stored those things in a chest in her spare bedroom, only opening the chest to add more to its contents. Now she only kept the bottles of sweet-smelling rose oil and perfumes for the days when her longing for home was enough to make her want to scream at the walls of her tower.

She knew why Sigrún and Fundin had decided to relocate to Erebor, but it would not make the void of their absence easier to bear. Leaning against the window-frame, she kept staring across the landscape, feeling her heart break. She had redressed in the delicate silk dress she had most recently received from home, after waving goodbye at the gate and returning alone to her tower, and now she just stood there, feeling the chill of the wind bite at her barely covered skin. She wasn’t even aware of the song falling from her lips; a mournful tune, filled with the stars of the desert, the heat of the sand beneath her feet and the sun above her head. She missed her home. _Without Sigrún and her family here, what was there for Rádveig in the Iron Hills but scorn and ill will?_

Behind Rádveig, the door opened, but she didn’t turn, expecting the intruder to be the maid who silently brought her meals.

“I have no wish to eat tonight, Vilda,” she sighed. The door closed once more. Rádveig leaned against the sill, following the aerial turns of a pair of swallows with her eyes and wishing she, too, had wings; wings that would carry her far away from this place. She wondered what it would be like to fly.

 _Is this home?_  
Is this where I should learn to be happy?  
Never dreamed that a home could be dark and cold  
I was taught, every day of my childhood  
even when we grow old:   
Home will be where the heart is  
never were words so true.  
My heart's far, far away,  
home is too.

Knowing that the words would make no sense to Vilda – and not entirely sure the maid possessed the faculty of speech at all – Rádveig kept singing, her fine voice easily flowing into the syllables of the desert tongue of the Men who shared the Red Wastes with the Dwarrow of Orocarni.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to see off Sigrún today, the council meeting ran late,” Náin spoke behind her, startling Rádveig. She ignored him; in truth, she hadn’t expected him to come, she knew well what they called her here. Diamond Heart. Of course, they had called her the Diamond of the Orocarni at first, but she knew what they meant by the moniker now. _The ice-hearted one, the one who thinks she is better than us, the one who cares for none but her sister. The one who is barren. The bad bargain._ She heard their whispers, when she left her tower on one of her rare excursions – usually when Sigrún or wee Dwalin wanted her to come along and she was able to focus only on them instead of the murmured comments aimed in her direction – or when she joined the Lord’s table for official feast days. She preferred to remain in her tower; at least then she could pretend she didn’t know how her husband’s kin felt about her, staring at the world that seemed so far away. “Rádveig?” he asked. She waved her hand at him, though she didn’t turn around. Apparently, Náin took it as permission to approach, and suddenly her blanket enveloped her shoulders, bringing some protection from the chill to her skin. The pretence of it all made her want to scream. The swallows had disappeared, taking her beloved sun with them. She missed the sun, missed the feel of its rays on her skin as she lay in the gardens of home and basked in the warmth, missed the glass-houses and their humid interiors filled with greenery and sweet blooms. “Will you come away from the window, wife?” Náin asked next. Rádveig didn’t care where she was, at all, and let him steer her towards the table that had been laid for two, a simple stew ladled into their bowls.

“…” finding words was too much effort, and Rádveig simply shook her head, sinking into her chair and watching her bowl dully. Her appetite was completely absent tonight. Rádveig didn’t actually think she had eaten anything at all since the night before, her stomach tying itself in knots.

“Do you feel sick?” Náin asked, but Rádveig didn’t lift her head to look at him, wishing he’d just go away; dealing with her husband on top of her heartache was too much to bear. When his palm found her forehead, checking for fever, she flinched away from the touch.

“Just go away, Náin,” Rádveig murmured tiredly. “I am in no mood for this tonight,” she had expected another two days of solitude before he came to her again, the upset in their carefully established routine throwing her for a loop. She wanted her silence, wanted to weep for Sigrún and wee Dwalin, to wonder how she would spend her days when she didn’t have teaching the wee lad to fill at least some of her daylight hours.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” Náin replied with a frown. Rádveig bristled at the reproach in his tone. _Why should he get a say?_ She was always alone, unless she was written into his ‘schedule’. “Your sister is gone, and I’m sure you’re sad.” Náin continued softly. _As if he knew – or cared – what she felt!_ Rádveig seethed. Náin opened his mouth again. Rádveig suddenly had enough – _more than enough_.

“Stop it!” she screamed at him, pushing herself up from the table violently enough to knock her chair over. Náin looked puzzled for a moment.

“Stop what?” he said, carefully. Rádveig wanted to punch something – or _someone_.

“Stop _pretending_ you care what I feel,” she seethed, turning away from the table to stomp into her own room. He wouldn’t come in there, he never came in there, limited himself to the sitting room and the other bedroom.

“But I do!” he protested, standing to follow. “You’re my wife, Rádveig. Of course, I care!” _Wasn’t that just the icing on the proverbial cake?_ _How could he even say that without the words sticking in his throat?_

“I am no _wife,_ ” she replied, her laughter mockingly coating the word. “Just as _you_ are no husband, _this_ ,” she gestured between them, “is no marriage, and _this,”_ she flung her hand out, indicating the room or the Halls at large, she didn’t care; it was all the same, “is not _home!_ ”

“…” Náin was speechless. Rádveig didn’t care to notice, continuing towards her bedroom and slamming the door behind her. _Tomorrow_ , she thought, _she would deal with him – and the outcome of her little outburst – tomorrow._ Tonight, she just wanted to be left in peace.

 

 


	2. Náin

## Chapter 2

At first, he tried to return to eating, tried to wait her out – surely, she would return, sit with him? Náin knew that it was not one of ‘their’ days, but he had hoped to be allowed to give her some comfort. He had meant to spend the day with her, saying more than the hurried farewell to Fundin and Sigrún that he had managed that morning in Adad’s study, but something had come up that needed his attention, and time had left him behind in the dust until he looked at the mirrors and realised that the sun had almost set and he was too late to stand by his distant wife. He had rushed up here, practicing his apologies, but he’d lost all his carefully worded phrases when he saw her standing in the window, the sheer silk clinging to her muscular body, revealing her enticing form limned in the last rays of the sun. It had taken more self-control than he thought he had, but Náin had abstained from kissing her neck, from looking for that spot that would make her sigh and soften against him.

Hearing again her mocking proclamation, his food suddenly became a choking lump in his throat. _I am no wife_. That’s what she said; claimed their marriage was a sham, a joke, a thing that did not exist. The thought – echoing words he had shouted at the walls of his own rooms once or twice as he drank scumble and felt the Maker mock his plight – pierced his soul. He had thought this was what she expected, what she wanted… wasn’t it? He remembered well the day he had married his beauty from the south, the words Grór had spoken to him, when he had explained that Stiffbeards did things differently to Longbeards.

 _‘The husband does not live with his wife_ ,’ Grór had said, ‘ _arranged marriages hardly create love, so you must not press your company upon the Lady Rádveig.’_

_‘Stiffbeards are always civil with each other, so you should not argue with your wife as you would one of our own dams.’_

_‘Set up a scheduled plan of meetings, and adhere to them, Stiffbeards are very punctual people, who like a certain amount of routine.’_

_‘Do not speak of love with Lady Rádveig, even if you feel fondly for her, for she will not return the sentiment. Stiffbeards do not usually marry for love, and they rarely understand it.’_

The last of his adad’s advice, Náin had decided to scrap entirely. ‘ _As long as you claim your heir from her, you may tumble as many others as you like; affairs are only to be expected in this kind of union.’_ He had taken vows to have one wife and only one wife, and he would not sully his own honour as well as Rádveig’s by breaking them so easily – no matter how many nights he had to spend with only his hand for company, dreaming of the curves he got to hold once a week, the surprising softness of her beard against his cheeks when he kissed her neck, trying to make her enjoy his touch. He usually managed, or at least, he had thought he did – _what if Rádveig never had liked what they did together?_ He had tried to follow Adad’s advice, had tried to be a kind lover – even on those days when he wanted to throw her against a wall and work out his frustrations until they were both boneless with pleasure, he had controlled himself harshly, come to her gently, slowly, watched her face for any discomfort as he tried to give her pleasure with his own. He tried to do right by her, often wondering if there was some Orocarni dwarf she thought about when he looked up to see her lie there with her eyes closed. He wanted to strangle whomever it was; _he_ was the one giving her pleasure, _he_ wanted to be in her thoughts, wanted her to want _his_ touch. She did, after all, enjoy it, even though it seemed to take longer lately to turn her soft and pliant, and Náin had _wondered_. He had even gone so far as to ask Vilda what she thought Rádveig would like – _maybe if he left his beard un-braided every once in a while?_ – but the maid had been no help; he’d eventually realised that the one person not related to her by blood who spent the most time with his wife had never actually spoken to her.

 

Before even deciding on his imminent course of action, Náin found himself opening the door to Rádveig’s other bedroom. He had never been in here before, had always been with her in the other room, which had remained spartan in décor even after so many years of living here. This room, however, this room was pure Rádveig; at least, he could see parts of her that he felt he almost knew in this room.

“Rádveig, talk to me,” he asked, managing to keep his voice from trembling, watching her lying on her side on her bed, her back towards him. She was so far away, even though she was close enough to reach. “Please?” Touching her shoulder gently, he was not surprised when she flinched away, though it made him want to punch the walls, rail against whatever had changed her from the beautiful and smiling Lady he remembered being engaged to and marrying, to this lump of cold stone.

 

Afterwards, he was unable to tell where the sudden impulse had originated, but he toed off his boots quickly and climbed into bed with her, wrapping his longer limbs around her. At first, she fought him – he had seen her spar, she could have wrestled away from him if she truly wanted to – but he kept her tight against his chest, until all the fight left her and he was left holding a shaking dwarrowdam, Rádveig’s silent sobs wetting her pillow. Keeping one arm around her, Náin stroked her arm gently, watching her diamond façade crack and splinter beneath the hammer of exhaustion. Part of him felt like he was holding a stranger with his wife’s body and part of him wanted to kiss her – he had never dared before, but he had longed for that mouth, dreamt of tasting her lips – wanted to make her forget her sadness through touch. He didn’t, however, simply held her and tried not to think about the way her plump and curvaceous form felt against him. He wanted answers, wanted to fix… whatever it was that hurt her so badly. Her beard – such a lovely colour – was soft against his arm; he remembered how much that had surprised him when he kissed her – the first and only time he had dared – to seal their wedding vows.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked, more than an hour later. In the spirit of things, Náin answered with complete honesty. Perhaps, if he told her everything, she might do the same, might let him in, might let him see the heart he caught glimpses of when he came across her playing with her nephews or sitting with her sister, embroidery hoop in hand.

“I’m trying to comfort you. This is how we Longbeards do it. Have you never been hugged before?” The idea that she might not made him sad. He had seen her parents at the engagement feast, but they had died years before the actual wedding. He didn’t remember them being overly affectionate with each other or with Rádveig or Sigrún. She stiffened in his arms.

“Of course, I’ve been hugged before!” Rádveig managed to be scathing even with her voice scratchy from crying. Náin winced. “I meant why are _you_ hugging me. Why are you _here_ , Náin, I wonder.” She moved, the habit of gesturing when she spoke something he had always found endearing, but he didn’t loosen his grip.

“Apologising,” he muttered, thinking about all the lines he’d completely forgotten to say. _She probably wouldn’t want to hear them_ , he thought, not keen on making another mistake like the hugging comment. “And I thought you might let me, for once.” Already, he had received more intimacy – somewhat in spite of herself, admittedly – than Rádveig normally gave him in a month; she never touched him outside her bedroom, and even in there, she never truly participated until he had turned her flesh needy with his fingers and his lips – he tried not to wonder where her mind went those times, but it was difficult when she wouldn’t even look at him.

“ _Let_ you?” she asked, incredulous. He nodded against her neck. She smelled good, something a little sweet but spicy, Náin thought. It made him want to kiss her again, part of him wondering why she’d never dressed like this before, wondering if she always did on days he didn’t see her. The silk was soft beneath his fingers, tracing the strong muscles of her upper arm through the diaphanous fabric. Rádveig sighed.

“I know I’m not supposed to…” he admitted, tightening his hold when she wriggled again, and firmly telling himself not to focus on the way her bottom pressed against him, but Rádveig just turned over to stare at him with red-rimmed eyes, “but…” Náin blushed. She was so beautiful, even like this, and he… he wanted to kiss her, wanted to kiss her here, in this bed, wanted to erase any possible memory of whomever she had left behind to marry him, whomever it was she wore this silk concoction for in her head.

“Why?” she asked, blinking at him, her soft brown eyes still shiny with tears.

“Because you’re a Stiffbeard,” he said, feeling sheepish that she required an explanation, and then horrified when he realised that his words had actually _hurt_ her, seeing the evidence in her eyes, felt the way she recoiled from him. He scrambled to clarify his meaning, remove the pain from her eyes, his fingers still bent on stroking her shoulders and her back – carefully not reaching for anywhere she might consider an attempt at something other than comfort, trying to soothe through touch. “Adad told me it wasn’t something a Stiffbeard would want… from her husband…” he trailed off. He was beginning to think his Adad had been wrong about most things to do with Stiffbeards, cursing himself for a fool.

“I’m…” Rádveig frowned, “not sure I understand your meaning.” Náin’s blush deepened.

“I- Well, _your_ Adad told me to treat you like the Lady you are, and _my_ Adad said Stiffbeards don’t love their spouses, so I shouldn’t try to…” Embarrassment ate his words. Ducking his head, Náin felt unaccustomedly shy. Rádveig’s eyes widened.

“Náin…” shaking her head, she changed her mind. “I promise you, my parents did love each other, my sister _does_ love her husband… and I might have loved you.” Pushing herself away from him, Rádveig got to her feet, drying her tears on the corner of her sleeve. “I’ve decided to return to Red Peak. I am willing to dissolve our union and I will let you seek someone else to carry your heir.” With a sigh, Rádveig turned away from the redhaired dwarf sprawled across her bed. Náin was gaping at her.

“No!” he cried, startling the both of them with his vehement denial. “I want… I want you.” He whispered, loud in the silence. “I want you to be my wife.” Rádveig did not turn around.

“And what of what I want?” she asked, quiet, broken. “I want a real marriage, Náin, I want a husband who loves me, who cares for my company every day, not just once a week when it’s on his timetable. I want to look forward to going to bed with him, to wake up beside him, to speak of things I care about instead of simply being your exotic ornament trotted out when you can’t avoid it!” Rádveig spun around, throwing up her hands. “I want a _life_ , Náin, I want to be able to leave my house without feeling hated by those I meet, without hearing them condemn me with every step I take, without feeling as though I am the worst Dwarf in the Iron Hills!”

“But I thought…” Náin tilted his head, considering her. _Was that why she so rarely left her tower?_ “I thought this was the way marriages worked in Orocarni!” Guilt tore at him. The Ironfists and Longbeards that made up his adad’s Realm were excessively fond of him, their princess’ only pebble, and if he thought about it, he wasn’t surprised that they would consider Rádveig the reason for his malcontent. “Adad said this was what you would expect, would _want_ , and I… I _tried_ , Rádveig, even though I’ve _hated_ it, for years I’ve tried to be the husband you’d want.” He felt the resurgence of years of frustration rise in his chest, but he pushed it away to stare at her, imploring her wordlessly to give him something, _anything_ that proved she might be amenable to a change that didn’t mean her leaving him altogether.

“Why would I only want to see you once a week?” she asked, quizzical now; her anger brushed aside for the moment. Náin felt a glimmer of hope.

“Well, Adad said that you’d expect to have separate bedrooms, and I shouldn’t expect to be welcome more than once a week – less so once we had a pebble.” Náin explained. _He had spent years being angry about that, all without true cause?_ It was enough to make any Dwarf want to break something, he thought, wondering if Rádveig would be terribly upset it he smashed one of her frankly ugly dining room chairs to kindling. Rádveig just gaped.

“My parents have separate bedrooms,” she suddenly whispered, the light of understanding flickering in her face. Náin stared. “I suppose, if Lord Grór asked the servants…” Sinking onto the bed, Rádveig’s shoulders began shaking, her face hidden in her palms. Náin cautiously touched her shoulder, prepared for another flood of tears. Instead, he realised, Rádveig was _laughing_ , laughing so hard the bed was shaking with it.

“So… you didn’t want separate bedrooms?” he asked, feeling stupid. How many times had he cursed that edict without questioning it at all?

“My Amad snores. Her bedroom is soundproofed or she’d wake the house. Adad got his own bedroom because he couldn’t sleep otherwise,” Rádveig guffawed. _She’s even prettier when she laughs_ , he thought, a small smile playing around his own lips. “And I suppose he did visit hers about once a week… because in there they could be as _loud_ ,” they both blushed at that thought, “as they wanted. It did not mean Amad did not go to his room before retiring to her own, of course…”

“I am an idiot…” Náin moaned. He still wanted to punch someone – preferably Adad, though he wouldn’t object to punching his younger self either – but he was beginning to see a bit of Rádveig’s amusement.

“No… just the _son and heir_ of an idiot,” Rádveig chuckled, tears of mirth rolling down her cheeks. “Then again… it seems you also married an idiot.” Falling back onto the mattress, they both stared at the ceiling, mirth having suddenly fled the room. Nain swallowed loudly, suddenly more nervous than he had ever been in her company, even when he was young stripling and she was an exotic lady from a far-off land, an enchanting beauty meant just for him. She was still enchanting, he had to admit, even if she ought to smile more – he would make it his job to get her to laugh at least once a day, he decided on a whim.

“Hello, my name is Náin,” he whispered, happy that she didn’t pull away from his touch when he found her hand with his own. Feeling shy, he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles as though they had only just been introduced. “You married me, but I don’t think you know me, and I’m pretty sure I don’t know you, so… what’s your favourite colour?” The question was inane, but it was all he could think to start with; something that he had wondered before, but never thought to ask, and perhaps it was enough to be the first stone of the bridge that could span the chasm they had dug between them.

“I am Rádveig, in your tongue,” she replied, “though I have also been called Nasrinazar, in the tongue of the Sandwalkers and the Men of the Sands. My favourite colour is red, like the seeds of pomegranates, which are my favourite fruit.”

“You never wear red,” Náin questioned, turning his head to look at her, the cool green silk of her dress about as far from red as possible. Rádveig laughed.

“I can’t, I’m sad to say. It does not work well with my hair. What’s your favourite colour?”

 

 

Through the long hours of the night they lay on the bed, speaking of likes and dislikes, but every titbit of knowledge they learned about the other was a step towards fondness. Neither truly expected to end up in love, having spent too many years at odds with their situation, but a tentative friendship was established that night.

 


End file.
